You Don't Know Joe
by Ishums
Summary: A flash fiction inspired by a mag spread of a certain famous Joe. Disclaimer: I don't own Joe.


I heard the door click softly open, and then nothing else for a moment. A deciding silence passed and then the door jam squeaked as he leaned his weight against it. I was like a bat, hyper sensitive to his presence and movement. I could feel him thinking as he leaned, the thoughts pressing against me like a smothering fog, his eyes slowly taking me in as I buried my head in what my ex-husband had once called my get-rid-of-that-stupid-unicorn pillow, and pretended to sleep. I had crossed that line. I had disregarded that well established border between acquaintance and friend and good fiend and best friend and vaulted beyond them to let fall the weight of my problems on his un-expectant shoulders.

I felt shame. At what I had done, and how I had behaved. I had been thinking about my ex-husband. I had felt the knife slice through my hand, instead of through the carrot, and I felt intense shame at the memory, because I couldn't remember if it had been an accident. I freaked out. I had had a mental breakdown, and he had come to rescue me. While I was cradling my hand, the knife still dripping red with my blood after clattering to the kitchen floor, I sobbed uncontrollably. He had put his arm around me, comforting this stranger, as he hunted for band-aids to remedy my accident. He was thrust unknowing and unwilling into a war-zone, and so far he had done his duty as a kind person. He was to be admired, and this fact deepened my guilt. I had acted childishly, unable to control myself. I hated who I was in that moment, what I had become. This made me want to cry again, but I was past that now, weariness replacing my usual iron control.

I wondered what thoughts could keep him by the door to this stranger, what compelled him to observe me, and then I felt a coolness envelope me as he drew the sheet across my blushing skin. I jumped. I hadn't heard him cross the room, and now I was given away, forced to acknowledge his presence as he now knew I had been faking. I turned my head and met his eye, and quickly hid my face again. A clawing beast unleashed itself inside my gut. I think I whimpered. In his eyes I saw pity. Pity for this worthless useless unstable creature. It slaughtered the last vestige of hope I had secretly harboured that he might forget or gallantly ignore my indiscretion.

My fears were confirmed when I felt the weight of him settle on the bed beside me. Go away, I screamed at him over and over in my mind, but he didn't leave. He just sat there, feet up, resting comfortably against my headboard, breathing calmly and like this was the most normal thing in the world. This isn't and you should leave! I screamed at him some more. Then the seven worst words in the English language left his mouth all in a murderous row, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." I replied, petulant and muffled. Too late, I remembered he could not hear my internal monologue, could not then have heeded my wishes, and therefore had no context for my sudden bitterness. I called myself some names.

There was a pause, a horrible, inflamed span of time, and then I felt him rise. My throat closed, panic panic panic. "Wait! Joe, I'm sorry." I stuttered out turning, breathless. I reached for him. My hand brushed his arm and I recoiled, bitten by the contact. I hugged my discourteous self, tried to look at him and couldn't. I hid my eyes, and for some reason known only to the despicable writer of my comic tragedy, he sat back down. Fuck. Peeking through lashes, my eyes followed the curve of his back as he sat patiently, his hands clasped between his knees, waiting. He glanced at me, and smiled encouragingly, a dimple forming in one cheek. Fuck.

I took a breath. "I'm a complete ass-hole, I'm sorry." I took another breath, hoping air would cure my stupidity. "You're being an awesome person, but this just isn't your problem. I'm really sorry I put that on you. You don't have to be here, trying to make me feel better. It's okay if you just leave me alone. I'll get over it." I forced a laugh but it sounded like the farce that it was.

There was another painful pause within which I contemplated the dexterity needed to vault past him, run through the door, while grabbing my keys and tearing up the new lease. You're free, I would shout. Free of this crazy bitch!

"You don't have to act like that." Words left his mouth, but it took me a second to put their pieces into a recognizable order.

"Like what?" I said dumbly.

"Like you're worthless." He looked at me then, and I couldn't hide from it, the pity, that god-awful pity. Fucking, fucking pity. It poked the ashy embers of my clinging pride, and rage crawled up and clawed into me. It was ridiculous that I was angry at him, but this only gave my rage-beast more incentive to squish things. He meant it kindly, of course, but I wanted to rip into that kindness and turn it into pain. I wanted to cut that fucking innocence off of his boyish face with a boning knife, and leave him crippled and ugly.

"The fuck do you know about worthless?" His expression froze, unsure. We had worked together before on projects, him always in the lead, and knew each other well enough to share a two bedroom apartment after some desperate occurrences in both of or lives, but this was new territory between us. He was as uncertain of his footing as I was, had been, until the rage-beast made me invincible. I was beyond myself, transcended to a plane of suffering and pain. I only wanted to twist his heart, to make him join me.

"You're a fucking Movie Star. A fucking _celebrity." _I spit the word, knowing it would hurt him, make him hate me, make him leave. Anything to wring that pity from him. Hate I knew, hate I could handle. "The fuck do you know about one of us lower class citizens? Go buy a fucking mansion, and leave me the fuck alone." I saw the words drive into him, changing his face like I knew it would. He was a dry stone, not a drop of kindness left. His eyes filled with my words. Pity gone, work done.

"You know, fuck you, Jem." He stood, fists clenched. "I don't need this. You're right, I didn't ask for this. I don't want this. So, fuck you." His feet took him to the door, his hand turned the knob, and my heart stopped beating as it opened. I doubled over, my head in hands, trying to swallow my scream. Eyes pressed shut, I felt nothing but the pressure of my grief boiling inside me. The door slammed and I tried to breathe, but my throat was wrung tight like a vice, and it came out a ragged gasp. Then the door slammed again as his fist struck wood. He hadn't gone. Startled out of myself for a moment, I looked up. His muscles coiled and arched out as he struck the wood again and again.

"You are such a stupid, selfish bitch!" He raged at the door, and I felt a lick of fear when he turned and strode toward me. Only for a moment I considered defending myself, but then his hands had grabbed my arms, and he had pressed himself against me, and his lips against mine. Every feeling fled, and every thought followed. He pulled back and whispered against my lips, "You are so fucking stupid sometimes." The words reached my ears, but didn't register. He was kissing me again, and I was gone. My brain was a blank, startled canvas filled with lips and tongue. What the fuck is happening? My brain tried to interject, but then his hands were everywhere, and most of my clothes were on the floor. Suddenly, waking from my dream, I was in myself again, and I could feel the firm warmth of his naked chest against mine. I didn't remember removing his shirt, but there were buttons scattered on the bed and floor, so one of us did it. I melted into the feel of his skin him pressed to me. It was an expanse of sunlight when I had been so cold, for so long. I fumbled at his buckle, my hands shaking, suddenly unsure. I looked up at him, and he smirked.

Grabbing my wrist roughly, he pinned it behind me in a quick motion. He buried his face in my neck, and biting, he forced me down on the bed. I was prostrate before him, vulnerable to him and his hands. They were everywhere, and they were rough, groping, scratching, trying to make me submit. He was twisting my arm and it hurt. I arched my back to try to free myself, but he forced me down with the weight of him. The pain wound around me like barbed wire, slicing through my skin. I fought against it, but he had me at a disadvantage. The anger began to creep through me again. Fuck him, fuck his money, and fuck his _celebrity._

I wrapped my legs around his and used his own weight to swing myself on top. He still had my arm, but no longer the advantage. I looked down at him, and wanted to tear him apart. For everything he stood for. For everything that I had never been able to achieve. The pretty boy with the arts degree who had everything handed to him. Fucking looks, fucking talent, fucking attitude. Fuck him. I sat on top of him in nothing but my panties, and I owned him. This was intoxicating.

I slapped him across his face and split his lip. He gasped, startled, reaching for it, but I grabbed his arm and forced it over his head. Leaning down I licked all along his bloodied lower lip, tenderly, and then bit down until I heard him moan. He let go of my other arm to grab my hair, and suddenly I was dragged upwards, sitting on his lap, his lips at my breast, his cock hard and pressed against me through his slacks. I ground against him and his buckle cut against me, but I didn't care. His hand had slid past my panties and was deep between my legs and I was elsewhere, screaming. I heard his zipper, felt my panties rip, and he was in me.

Fuck yes, was all I could think as I rode him. He moaned, and I felt it vibrate through him. I looked into his eyes, and saw hurt and hunger. I felt his hands claw deep into my back and I gasped in pain. I looked again and he was smiling. He flipped me over and shoved me down under him, forcing my arms up with one hand, and grabbing the small of my back with the other. I screamed out as he pushed into me, too deep. It hurt, the pain mixed with intense pleasure, and I felt my eyes start to tear up. He kept thrusting, again and again, harder and deeper each time. His buckle slid and scratched and slid and scratched. I fought, but he held me down, enjoying it. Suddenly, the pain receded and a pressure started to build in me instead. I looked at him, eyes blurred with tears, he kissed me almost gently, and I came with the taste of his blood on my tongue.

My throat raw from screaming, I could only gasp as my back arched and I bucked against him, riding my bodies pleasure. Joe pressed his face to my skin, his breath hot and fast, his nails digging deep trails in my back, and I felt him shudder and cry out as he came with me. We were both lost in worlds of our own pleasure, blind to one another, but still frenzied and tearing at each other. Then, our rhythm slowed, and we became humans again.

He lay there for a moment, still inside me and tangled with me, catching his breath. Slowly, his claws released me and stroked my skin almost timidly. I knew I was bruised, and in the way he touched me, I knew he now knew I was bruised. Gingerly, he traced once of the lines he had left with a finger. I could feel the tickle that meant blood was flowing down my thigh. Great, add buy new sheets to my list, thanks. I could feel him looking at me, but glowing, I didn't want to open my eyes and face the reality of what had just happened. I kept my eyes shut, but the glow couldn't protect me. Now, I felt sick. Instantly, the glow was gone, the shame returned, with interest. Fuck.

Joe rolled over, and I could hear him doing up his pants. I didn't want to look but I would've bet money I had ruined those also. Awesome, I am now dominatrix, fucker of room mate, and ruiner of fine Versace. Just. Fucking. Awesome. I tried to bury my head in the pillow, but when I moved, I felt something grind together in my chest. Oh, fucking Jesus, did I just crack a rib while fucking my fucking room mate? Fucking karma. I yelped.

"Are you okay?" There was that goddamned kindness again.

"Perfect. Fucking perfect."

"Jem, look at me." He sounded worried and sorry and hurt and pitiful and I wanted to slap him again.

"No?" I tried to laugh but my side hurt too much. "I'm fine." I gasped when I said it which probably made it less convincing. He reached over and removed my arms from where they had been covering my face, and I was forced to look at him. My heart beat in my throat as we sized each other up.

"The fuck just happened, Joe?"

"Yes, it did." Flat faced, the shadow of a dimple gave him away.

"Fuck you."

"Yea, love you too, Jem." I saw his expression fall as he realized what he had just said. Like that, the familiar banter went awkward. I knew in that moment that we were no longer two acquaintances who shared a house together, we were no longer two people who operated on tentatively friendly basis tempered by much sarcasm and swearing, we had instead become two people who had fucked, and now shit was going to be weird.

I closed my eyes, the scratches in my back burning, the crack in my rib humming a disapproving tune, bruises foreshadowing themselves as soft aches in tender places, and thinking to myself that I really didn't know Joe all that well, but I was definitely going to have something to remember him by.

mk


End file.
